


The One Where It's Hot

by orphan_account



Category: letsplay, markiplier - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Markiplier - Freeform, markiplier imagines, markiplier preferences, markiplier smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 09:06:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7795732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was hot. It was so hot. It was the kind of hot that makes you want to die. The kind of hot that drips down your back, sticks to your thighs, and seeps into your veins, making it impossible to remember a time when you weren’t so goddamn hot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where It's Hot

It was hot. It was _so_ hot. It was the kind of hot that makes you want to die. The kind of hot that drips down your back, sticks to your thighs, and seeps into your veins, making it impossible to remember a time when you weren’t so _goddamn hot_.

You walked up the stairs to your third-floor apartment, dragging your feet up the steps, the weight of your legs too much to bear under the thick air. With each conquered flight, you allowed yourself a few seconds of respite while you pumped yourself up for the rest of the stairs – _one more flight to go_.

When you make it to your apartment, you slump against the doorframe and breathe heavily, fanning at your face with a lame hand. You groan slightly, but then think against it, as it required more energy than you were willing to emit.

Unlocking your door, you drop all of your belongings at your feet, whining at how hot your third-floor, one-bedroom apartment is. Moving to New York City had never been in the plans for you _or_ your boyfriend, but when career opportunities presented themselves, neither of you could pass them up. If you thought Los Angeles was hot in July, you had another thing coming. Nothing, and you meant _nothing_ was hotter than the center of New York City in the middle of the summer.

You slowly made your way to the windows – two small rectangles with ornate wrought-iron bars across them – and opened them up. The relief was minimal, but at least there was air flow. Yellow taxi cabs honked below you, the flow of traffic at the intersection outside of your building coming to a halt. Without the traffic lights working, everyone forgot how to drive again.

Walking away from the windows, you stripped off your dress, peeling the fabric off of your wet skin, tossing it across the room. It landed in a rumpled mess and you didn’t bother to pick it up, much too concerned with piling your hair on top of your head, the sweat at the nape of your neck causing you to cringe.

You thought, for a second, to stick your head in the freezer, but you figured you shouldn’t open the freezer _or_ refrigerator, fearing you’d lose the contents inside if you opened them too frequently. At a loss with what to do, you grabbed your phone from your purse by the door and slumped down onto the couch, your bra and panties sticking against the suede fabric.

“Hey,” Mark answers. “Is the power out at your office, too?”

“Yes,” you mumble, your right arm falling off of the couch, knuckles scraping against the floor. It was too hot to worry about lifting your arms - too hot to care. “They sent us all home, but the power’s out here, too.”

“Shit,” he spits. “I’m on my way back now. Five blocks away – figured it’d be faster to walk than take a cab. I guess the whole city is without power. Do you want me to see if I can grab a bag of ice?”

“Please,” you beg, nodding although he can’t see you. “It’s so hot. I’m dying – I’m _melting_ – I’m dying and melting at the same time.”

“Okay,” he chuckles on the other end of the line. “I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

You don’t bother to say goodbye, nor do you bother to hang up the phone. You drop it down to the hardwood floor, wiping the sweat that pooled in your cleavage, the dripping of it down from the crook of your neck constant. You felt sick – completely _disgusting_ – but you knew not even a cold shower would help. Could you even take a shower?

You close your eyes, focusing on how great it will be to run an ice cube on the back of your neck, how sumptuous it’ll be to make a trail of melting ice down your stomach, how orgasmic it will feel to suck on a shard of frozen water – the coldest thing you’d feel for god knows how long. Your skin stops sizzling for a glorious, much-needed moment, but a particularly long horn blast enters through your windows, causing your eyes to blink open, ruining the illusion.

It’s almost as if you’re hallucinating; like you’re in the desert, experiencing mirages for the first time. The weight of the air presses on your chest, the wetness of it dripping in your lungs as though the outer tissue is a cave and the moisture from the air is a stalactite. The humidity nearly crushes you, nearly causes your chest to hollow into itself, and you wonder if you’ll ever breathe normally again.

Unaware of how long you’ve been splayed out on the couch, you make no effort to move when Mark oozes through the door. He doesn’t even get a head tilt in acknowledgement. No – he receives only a blink, only a flutter of eyelashes against your cheek, only a passing moment that would’ve happened anyway.

“Fuckin’ shit,” Mark grunts, slamming down both his messenger bag and 5-lb bag of ice on the floor. “I can’t breathe. My lungs burn. Do your lungs burn?”

“ _Everything burns_ ,” you whisper, your mouth dry enough to warrant immediate attention. You whine, crying out in agony at your general state of existence.

“I had to walk three extra blocks for this bag of ice,” he breathes deeply, the heels of his palms digging into his knees. “Every store around here was sold out.”

“Mmm,” you respond. “Bring it to me.”

When he stands above you with the plastic bag around his fist, you motion for him to drop it on top of you. He gives you a knowing look, but you nod anyway, desperate for any type of relief. He gently places the bag across your torso, and you moan in delight. It surprises you that your skin doesn’t begin steaming at the contact at the initial contact. Once the entirety of it is laid on top of you, you hug the bag against your body, causing Mark to chuckle.

As you bask in the glory of sweet relief, be it momentary, Mark begins to peel off his t-shirt and pants, hissing at the stickiness of his thighs. You moan slightly from your position on the couch, placing your hands on your face, the residual coldness from the ice soothing your hot skin.

“How do we keep this cold?” Mark asks as he stoops above you once again. He pokes at the bag, and for a second, you’re so protective over it, you move to shield it from his reach.

“I guess we can’t, really,” you frown. “We’ll just have to relish in its greatness while we still can,” you move to sit up, the quickly melting ice dripping down your thighs. The cold water makes you smile contentedly as you stand up next to Mark.

Without any warning, you move the bag so it’s pressed against his spine. He shrieks for a moment, hissing at the contrast between hot and cold. Once the initial shock is over, he sighs into the feeling, the immediate relief rushing over his face.

“Feels good,” he mumbles. “ _So good_.”

You allow him to enjoy the feeling for what you believe to be an ample amount of time before begging him to do the same for you. Instead of placing the entire bag on your skin, he opens the twist-tie and grabs a handful of the crushed ice. Carefully lowering the open bag down to the floor, he positions himself behind you, his hand dripping with the aftermath of the frozen reprieve. 

“Ahh!” you yelp when his palm is placed on your back. He slowly moves his hand across the length of your shoulder blades, getting under your bra straps, underneath the clasp, and then back up again to the nape of your neck. You quickly tire of him finagling around your remaining clothing and remove your bra without warning. He chuckles to himself when you toss it across the room – it lands inches away from your forgotten dress.

You sigh wistfully, leaning back into his touch, the coldness of the ice melt dripping down your back. It pools in the dimples just above your underwear, and when Mark makes a move to dip his hand beneath the fabric, you squeal in delight. He pulls you back in when you dance away, promising not to do it again. You fully undress, just to be sure, and flick your panties to join your bra with a quick kick.

“C’mere, beautiful,” Mark smiles, opening his arms. You back into them, his torso touching the small of your back. You take two barely-there ice cubes from his hand and begin to run them up and down his arms as he trails the remaining shards over your collarbone. Kissing your neck from behind, you smile as he laps up the liquid trail he’s created, the results trickling down in between your bare breasts.

“Feel good?” you murmur, grabbing more ice from his grasp. You rest your buttocks on his hardening core, moving slightly so he knows you’re aware of his arousal.

“Mmm,” he responds, grinning into your skin as you kiss up his glistening forearms.

The two of you are entranced until both of you are out of ice, both of you silky with the residual water of your momentary liberation. When you move to refresh your stock, he playfully smacks at your ass as you bend over to the bag, water splashing from the contact.

“Get over here,” you beckon with an arched brow, curling your finger inwards. When you pop a cube in your mouth, his eyebrows raise, his eyes becoming playful at the ideas rushing through his mind.

He stops inches in front of you, the bulge in his boxer briefs becoming more apparent. It grazes your thigh as you step into him, laying your tongue flat against his neck, the ice searing against his hot skin. He groans deeply, enough to vibrate against your tongue, and you continue to trail the ice across his neck with your tongue. Palming his erection, you slurp up the water that pools in the spot just below his neck, pleased when his hips buck into your hand.

“So hot,” you whisper against his lips.

He groans, moving to nip at your lower lip, but you pull away before he makes contact. You quickly grab another cube, slipping it between your lips. Clutching it between your teeth, you run it against his jaw, causing him to mumble something too incoherent for you to understand. You pause at his lips, shaking your head back and forth slightly until it melts against his mouth. When he can’t take it anymore, he grabs the back of your head and pulls you to him, your lips crashing against his in a flurry of contrasting temperatures.

The ice, cold against your tongue, escapes from your mouth and makes its way into his. It makes this journey several times until it vanishes between the two of you, between the tangle of your tongues, between your desperate plea for the sweet relief of something – _anything_ – colder than the 300 degrees your body must’ve been feeling.

Pulling away, you wipe your bottom lip with the pad of your pointer finger, smiling at the whimsical look on your boyfriend’s face. When you bend down to replenish your ammunition, he grabs your hips and anchors you to the floor, causing you to drop the ice in the bag and steady yourself against the couch.

It’s a surprise when he juts out his tongue to lap at your folds, you knees nearly buckling at the shock of it. You moan headily, grasping at the couch cushions for support. He manages to spread your legs open, crouching down beneath you, lapping at your clit as though it was the cure to all of this heat. You closed your eyes and whimpered, silently thanking the angry taxi drivers below your open windows, the sounds of their horns bellowing through the streets enough to mask your noises of pleasure.

“Baby,” you smile. “Baby, baby, baby.”

And when he grabs a single cube from the bag, your heart jumps in your chest while your stomach flips, only imagining what it could mean. Mark, accompanied by a wicked grin on his face, runs the piece of ice over your ass, the trail of melt dribbling down the back of your legs. Placing the ice on his tongue, he swipes your folds with his freezing-cold index finger, causing a devilish laugh to escape your throat.

“Yeah?” he smiles behind you, “want more?”

“Yes,” you nod eagerly, your head tilted so you can see him. “Please.”

A grunt rises in his throat as he crunches the ice in his mouth. You wiggle your hips for encouragement before he dives in, the coldness of his tongue enough to make you turn into a puddle right there in your living room. The midday sun streaks through your windows as a feeling begins in your stomach – the feeling of fire and ice melding together, causing you to call out your boyfriend’s name, causing you to cry into the throw pillows on your couch, causing you to bend your knees, fearing you weren’t strong enough to stay standing much longer.

He refreshes his fingers by sticking them in the bag of ice quickly, his tongue still lapping at your clit, still lapping at the path the long-gone ice cube made down your body. You shriek when he sticks his icy fingers inside of you, your breath hitching in your throat.

Unable to support yourself, your knees buckle beneath you, forcing Mark to pull his mouth away from you, now only able to pleasure you through his fingers – which, by your standards, were _more_ than capable of getting the job done.

“ _Hoah,_ ” you gasp, your words getting lost between your brain and your lips. “Yeah,” you nod. “Good, good. _Fuck_!”

When you come, you don’t make a single noise. Instead, you writhe beneath Mark, under his hungry gaze, under his encouraging moans. It takes a moment for you to regain your senses, your body unable to comprehend the sensations of hot, cold, and intense pleasure all at once. With a shaky breath, you turn around on your knees, smiling at Mark, who has rested on his calves, a knowing grin plastered across his features.

You crawl towards him, glancing up at him through your eyelashes. Your hands make their way to the waistband of his boxer briefs and you rake them down his thighs, his cock popping out beneath the cotton underwear as if to say _finally, it’s my turn!_ You pop an ice cube in your mouth and munch happily on it while you twist your cold hands around his shaft, shaky breaths fleeing Mark’s lips.

When you swipe your thumb over the precum forming at the tip of him, he bucks involuntarily into you, his mouth open and soft. You smirk, lifting your finger up to your tongue for a taste, and he closes his eyes, mumbling curse words under his breath. When you lower yourself down to meet his cock, your mouth inches away, he grabs onto the crown of your head.

You jut your tongue out, circling it around the head, kissing a trail down the length of him while your thumb and forefinger create a tight grip around the rest of him. You wonder, for a moment, what the contrast of your icy-cold mouth must feel like against the intense heat of his erection. You slurp around him, sucking your cheeks in as you squeeze the base, content to do this for any amount of time.

“Son of a bitch,” he groans, gripping your hair tighter. You nearly smile, but you don’t want to lose concentration. He moans out again and again, watching you the entire time through hooded eyes, the sweat racing down the peaks and valleys of his abs. You lap at the skin of his cock, hungry for more sounds of pleasure.

“Baby,” he pulls at your hair gently, motioning you to look up. “Not yet.”

“You’re going to fuck me now,” you say, your voice gruff through the veil of your overheated haze. “Please. _Please_ fuck me now.”

Letting out a deep groan, he pulls you onto his lap after quickly changing positions so that he is stretched out on the floor, held up by his palms. Sitting on his thighs, you position yourself over his cock, which is now so hard, you imagine it must hurt a little. You both hiss as you lower yourself down onto him, the intense heat between the two of you enough to spark a fire.

“ _Goddamn_ ,” he spits between clenched teeth as you begin a rhythm, your feet flat on the floor on either side of his hips. “So fuckin’ good,” he mumbles into your chest. “ _Every goddamn time_.”

You giggle as you slowly rise and fall against him, the feeling of him fully consuming you enough to distract you from the heat, if only for a moment. You pause to grind down onto his cock, closing your eyes as he moans out against your neck, nipping at the salty skin of your collarbone.

Reaching behind you, you grab a handful of ice, running it down your boyfriend’s shoulders, the skin perfectly tanned and smooth. You become hypnotized, what with his glimmering body beneath you and the opulent feel of his cock inside of you as you move up and down on top of him. You watch the veins in his biceps as he pushes up and into you, using the floor for leverage. He pushes you back so that your shoulders are against the couch, transferring the wetness from his own skin onto yours.

Raking his fingertips down your neck, your breasts, your torso, he hisses at the movement of your hips – the feeling overwhelming, almost _too_ much. Car doors slam to the right of you, drivers curse at one another through open windows to the left of you, police blow whistles all around you, but the only thing you can hear is the soft tufts of air leaving Mark’s lips as you grind down onto him, whimpering at every change in pace.

“Baby,” you whine, and it’s almost annoying, the whimper that escapes out of you. Grabbing for him, the cold water dripping down your fingertips, you quicken your movements against him, pulling yourself up so that you’re able to feel all of him once more.

“I can’t,” he groans. “I ca – I’m gonna come,” he admits, closing his eyes as you lick at the skin just underneath the hinge of his jaw. “Too fucking good,” he mumbles. “So beautiful – _so_ beautiful.”

You whisper words of encouragement in his ear, not worried about receiving a second dose of pleasure. You’re pleased, if you do say so yourself – nearly proud of how quickly you’ve made him release into you, how quickly you caused him to buckle at the pleasure you’d given him.

“Well,” you say cheerfully as the last of his orgasm pulses through his veins, his breathing erratic and heavy, “that’s one way to pass the time.”


End file.
